Member-only story
Ghost Writing
Christmas roses bloom in the dying of the light
it’s not a rose it’s a beautiful buttercup, slight
like the golden marvels we used to decide
which side our bread was buttered, when granny was alive.
Was the yellow reflected on your chin?
No, these flowers resemble wild roses — poisonous to humans –
helleborus niger macranthus –
enough to tangle any tongue, no doubt.
Words weave their magic:
On the palate or the plate.
Thinking is believing
It’s never too late.
For there’s a shadow there, behind the sun,
made of words, it echoes and is no fun;
I transform myself into the music of the birds,
brim full of all the lives at stake,
as all hearts-ache observes.
Years pass by like phantoms,
like the passions of the heart,
silences breed silence, that’s the faeries’ part.
Forget what you remember,
give and never take,
replace the veil of the mysteries
mirrored in the lake…
Stake all that has been lost:
no longer plead, beg, yearn or flop
perceive the mystery of the seas
for all that is, is not.
Forget the days that pass,
half-create a stillness that will last,
glimpse the wraps around our dreams;
now, the air is becoming chill, it seems.
